


Ain't No Glory in the West

by soaringyonder



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Protective Arthur, also slow burn arthur x charles, arthur does not die here, van der linde gang gets a new member
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26187526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soaringyonder/pseuds/soaringyonder
Summary: what's the worst that could happen when a competent thirteen year old insists on being part of the crew?
Kudos: 23





	1. one.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hiding from wolves in the mountains... it's not easy, being thirteen.

**I** am frozen, alone, and dying, but all I can think about is that I want to have one last talk. A nice cup of hot chocolate, hot roast beef, maybe, I’m not quite sure. But I want to find someone who will just let me talk.

Because I have too much to say and I can’t let it go to waste. 

If it wasn’t for the goddamn assholes in town, I wouldn’t be stuck on this mountain. It’s a long winded, complicated story about why and who and how. I wouldn’t want to waste my last moments thinking about it. I hope the journal I have plastered to the inside of my coat stays dry until someone can find me. It has my name on it: Blair. 13 years old. And it has more of my life than I would ever tell a living thing. 

“Don’t sweat it, Blair.” I say to myself. Then, I laugh. “I don’t think I’ll be sweating in this weather anyways.”

Even the mention of cold makes me curl into a tighter ball, pressing up against the side of the cliff until I can practically feel the rock poking my side. After taking several sharp breaths, I find the need to talk even stronger than before.

“Don’t think I’ll be making it through,” I say whoever may listen.

I hope its mom. Or my father. Maybe even the both of them.

I can’t feel my legs. My arms. And I'm starting to lose feeling in my chest. Which means soon, I’ll get tired, and then, I will be no more. So I try to fight it off for a moment or two. And, believe it or not, I can. So I do what I do best. I start talking.

“I’m scared of dying, I think. I don’t think that, of all the ways I thought I’d go, this is somewhere beside drowning and burning. You know, two very slow, painful yet highly possible things. I guess that some things are better quick than like this slow, painful march.”

It’s more like a crawl, but now that I’ve come to a stop on the side of the cliffs, I can get a better look at my situation. High up, on a mountain, looking out into the setting sun. That’s quite the way to go, I would say.

“Well. You’ve got a nice view.” I shudder just from opening my mouth.

But it’s like the sun wants me to see it a set a couple more times, because I see two- maybe three- figures approaching. And I see their horses, steadily approaching, though skittish.  
I keep talking.

“I didn’t have much, but at least I wasn’t cold as hell. My brain might not work all the way right, but at least I had enough sense to keep myself alive for a few years. I’m thirteen. And all I’ve got is a diary- hey, hey, hey, hey, can you guys hear me? My name is Blair. I don’t have a last name. I’m Blair. Please hear me.”

One stops walking, places their hand on their belt. It hurts, but reach up my hand so it sticks out from the rock against white snow.

“Hey, don’t shoot, just come here. I’ve got to talk to someone before I die.”

“Is that- a kid?” A voice from behind them, stacking a body onto a horse. The body’s alive, but I don’t think I want to know why they’re up here. Not that i need to- I really just need to talk.

“Please, just- I’ve got this journal, it’s got some good stuff, I just- I want someone to remember who I am. Will you take it?” My voice cracks when I raise it above normal volume. “You can kill me, I don’t care, just take the journal.”

“I’m not gonna kill you.” The closest blur finally speaks, and now he’s so close I can tell it’s a strong, towering man. Or maybe just from my spot on the ground, he looks like that.

“Come on, let’s go, Arthur!”

He, Arthur, reaches for my bare hand, winces as it touches his. “Damn, you’re cold as ice!”

“I- you’re too warm.” I flinch as he pulls me onto my feet.

“You’re gonna die if you don’t get warm as me, kid.” He holds me firmly against his side as we trudge through the snow. My legs hurt so much I nearly whimper each time we take a step, but we make it to his horse before they buckle. I manage to help Arthur, who I need heat from, get me onto the horse before he follows suit. As if he’s in a panic, he fumbles open his jacket and wraps me inside of the cotton.

“Come on, let’s get back to the others.” The second man says.

I button up again as best I can, and we start riding.

“Looks like we’ve got some company ‘cause of you, Marston.” Arthur’s voice rumbles against my head.

“Well,” Is the response from the weak, third man I saw. “I don’t feel too good.”

“Hang on, John.” The rider on the other horse shouts above the wind. “We’ll get you home soon enough.

“You’ll be fine,” the unnamed man says. “It’s just like a… dog bite.”

Well. I know what happened to the wolves from earlier.

“I knew a feller, got bit by a dog. Died an hour later.” John Marston huffs a breathy laugh.

“You ain’t gonna die,” sighs Arthur. “Not yet.”

We ride down a small slope, and I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.

“Wolves!” I shout. Or, try to shout. It's exhausting. 

“Up there, more of ‘em!”

I can hear them snarling, and both horses whinny in response as we flee into thicker snow. I hear a pistol cock above my head. And then, a bang that sends my ears ringing. He turns around and fires again, but I can see more coming up through the gray void on our sides.

“They’re flanking!” I warn.

“Get the hell out of here! Get out!” screams the rider.

Two more shots they’re gone.

“You see any more, Arthur?”

“Don’t think so.”

A chill spurts through my body. “Oh, God, uhm…”

“You with us, you two?”

“Just about,” says John. But my throat feels too cold to respond.

“Kid?”

The world is blurring, softening, and the last thing I hear is someone saying “I got you, hang on!” 

* * *

The first thing I notice when conscious again is that I am warm. Next is that I’m hurt, and last is that I’m alone, in a tiny room with two beds, so I’ll have company soon enough. And I’m right.

“We’ll figure it out, Arthur.” I hear a somewhat nasally voice say as a door opens. “You just take care of that kid.”

I shut my eyes as it slams closed, especially at the mention of me. Footsteps creak in the small house, followed by the shedding of a coat and a huff of breath.

“Damn cold.” Arthur, I conclude, grumbles to himself as he sits on the bed nearby. Then, silence. A moment of hesitation. The floorboards creak as he approaches the side of my bed. Gently, he shakes my arm, and I open my eyes to see him. And I can actually see him.

He’s not as tall as I remember, but his build is about the same. He has sandy blonde hair and wide green eyes. He looks-- like a man. A man of shock when I look back at him. 

“Oh, uhm, you’re awake.” He gives a short cough. “You, uh, need anything?”

I slowly use the bed to push myself into a sitting position. My hands look like the skin has been torn off, right up to where my jacket began to protect the rest of me. I wince when I touch my face- my nose, and cheeks, burn the most. Nothing is black, though, which is good. Just red and white, rough to the touch.

“Can I have my journal?”

“Sure.” Arthur walks over to a mound of cloth, fishes for it, and hands it to me. “I tried to dry it as best I could.”

It’s intact. A smile breaks out onto my face. “Thank you.”

“Sure you don’t want food and water, somethin’ like that?”

Even though he’s not joking, I laugh at the notion. “Yeah, sure. I don’t mind anything. No time to be picky.”

“I’ll be back. Try to keep warm.”

I pull the blanket that he nods to around my shoulders. A few minutes of silence pass, nothing but me and the snow, and then, he returns with two steaming objects- bowl and cup.

“Pearson said it’d be best to give you hot water with hot stew, so, uh, here.” He sets them down on the table beside me.

I pick up the cup and down it in seconds, before hungrily eyeing the plate. It has plenty of meat inside, so I dig in right away.

“You got a name?” Arthur asks in between my bites.

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Well, what is it?”

I scrape at some of the excess sauce. “Blair.”

“Well, I’m Arthur Morgan.”

I lick the last of my bowl and stick out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Arthur Morgan.”

He takes my hand and gives me a nervous handshake, as if such an action would break my bones. He seems uncomfortable, but gruff, like he’s pretending that he knows what he’s doing. I try my best to answer his questions without making him anxious.

“So, why the hell were you up there dyin’ on a mountain?” He runs his hand through his hair.

“I got chased out of Valentine by some assholes in town. Started calling me names, and nasty ones at that. Guess being-- well, non white-- didn’t sit well with both of those guys.” 

“Damn bastards. I’d kill all of them if I got the chance.” Arthur grumbles.

“Well, a bunch of wolves scared them off my path, I couldn’t find my way down.” I chuckle, but it sounds too wheezy. “So I just kept walking around, trying to find a way back. But it’s cold as all hell as of late, and my legs just couldn’t take any more. And then, there you were.”

“Well, you’re damn lucky, kid.” He rubs his hands back and forth before blowing on them. “I gotta get some rest, since it’s pretty late, you, uh, you okay here?”

I start to smile. “Arthur, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine if you need to sleep.”

“I’ll just pull in the spare blanket and … yeah.”

He’s quiet. No man I’ve seen in the past few weeks has been as quiet as this one. I can’t tell if it’s discomfort, or just exhaustion. Either way, when he finally stretches and settles into the bed, he can’t sleep. He tosses and turns and yet, there’s no relief. I decide it’s best to let him figure things out, even after the clock ticks and time drags on.

“Hey, Arthur. Do you need help?”

“I, uh, just can’t seem to quiet my mind.”

Been there, done that, I think to myself. “Sorry to hear that. Well, uhm, I… goodnight?”

“Goodnight.” A sigh.

I open my journal and begin to inspect its contents. My hope is that I can still read most of my words, and make out most of my drawings.

“Oh Danny boy,” I sing quietly, turning to face the wall. “The pipes, the pipes, are calling…”

“What song is that?” He sounds breathless. Almost. Like he’s half asleep and scared he’s interrupting something. But I don’t mind. After all, it's the first time someone's talked to me in the past day. I shut my journal-- satisfied with its mostly unscathed pages-- and shift so my head rests on the wall behind me.

“I don’t know. My mother- and father- that’s about all I remember from them. They would sing a lot, most often when I couldn’t sleep.”

“Are they-“

“Ah, they’re dead, Arthur.”

“Oh.”

There’s an awkwardness now, one I’ve felt many a time. “Hey, but, I mean, I’ve survived a long time without them. Thirteen years old, and I’ve only been caught by a storm once.”

A snort. “Well, I guess so.”

"And you can't really miss what you never have." I fold my hands on my lap. 

Silence. 

“What about you, Arthur? Got family?”

“Just the people ‘round here.”

“When can I meet them?”

“When you can walk. I’m sure Charles and the like will visit when they get the chance. But you’re- uh, I guess you’re stuck with us, for now.”

“That’s alright with me.” I burrow deeper in the blankets until I can’t see anything but the dim light of an oil lamp. “Goodnight, Arthur. And hey- thank you. For picking me up.”

“Don’t thank me for that.”

“You’re a good man.”

“Oh, please.”

“What? You are. Think most men would have done what you did?”

“That don’t make me a good man, kid.”

And I'm not sure what to say to that, so I shut my eyes and sigh instead. 


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's time for blair to get some food, but it doesn't all quite go as planned.

**I** n my thirteen years of living I’d never expected this. But, alas, here I am, with a burly cowboy in an equally thick blue coat, thawing out in a bed during one of the roughest snowstorms I’ve ever seen. 

Arthur Morgan is new to me. I’ve only known him for a brief time, and he seems as nervous about it as I am. Which, in perspective, gives me some kind of relief. He sits in a chair and scribbles away in the leather-bound journal from his satchel. He hardly speaks to me, but he always looks as though he wants to. 

When he returns from the outside world around dinnertime, our conversation begins with a cough. 

I look up from the quilt, with it’s patterns I’ve practically memorized at this point. “Hm?” 

“I, uh, Hosea helped me set up some hot water for you in the back.” 

A nod, though I don’t know who Hosea is. “Oh, okay.” 

“He thought it would be a good idea to try and get some warmth back in ya.” 

I’m already warmer than I was, but I figure it can’t hurt me. “Thank you, Arthur.” 

“No need for that. Come on, I’ll help you get out of bed.” 

I grimace at moving my tender palms to shift to the edge. Slowly, after gripping underneath my shoulders, Arthur hoists me from the blankets onto the hardwood floor. Despite having seen my situation before, I flinch at the raw appearance of the skin where my socks and gloves and coat didn’t reach. 

He watches me stumble into the room and take in the steaming bath sitting there. After I shut the door, I peel away my stiff underclothes and start by dipping my legs in. 

The relief is so sweet I almost gasp. There is no longer ice in my veins, nor grime on my arms, but a sharp knock on the door brings my attention away from my sudden comfort. I dunk myself as quickly as I can. 

“Hello? Blair, is it?” It’s a voice, one I don’t recognize, higher pitched and softer than the others. 

“Come in?” I ask, sinking low in the bath so whoever walks in can’t see me. It’s a young woman, swathed in layers of clothes, only her face visible before she takes off her hood and shakes snow onto the floor. 

Her dark cheeks are flushed but her smile is kind. “Hi, Blair, I’m Tilly. Tilly Jackson.” 

“Nice to meet you.” I grin above the edge so she can see. 

“I brought you some warmer clothes- Hosea told me it was Arthur’s and John’s old stuff from when they was younger, so it might be big, but it’ll do the job.” 

“Thank you.” I watch as she places them next to the tub. 

She lingers by the door for only a second. “You let me know if you need anything, okay?” 

“Sure.” 

Once she’s gone, I scrub at my arms for a few more minutes. The deep brown skin of my hands begins to prune, making my fingers even more sensitive to every touch. 

This time yesterday, I was unconscious and sitting up in the folds of a strange man’s coat. Now, I’m cleaned up, warmed, slightly, and very much alive. 

Eventually I feel comfortable leaving the tub and changing into the clothes Tilly brought. The button down’s sleeves goes past my hands, but the pants aren’t too big, and having socks is a stroke of luck in itself. I travel back into the bedroom and pull on my boots.

The door opens out of my view. “Just get them over here, it’s cold, and they’re hungry.” 

“Alright, I will.” 

I see Arthur enter, take one look at me, and shake his head. 

“What?” 

“Ah, it’s nothin’. Don’t worry about it too much.” 

So I don’t. I follow him outside in the bitter cold-- all the more pleasant with wet hair-- and into what looks to be the main cabin, bathed in light and smelling like stew. 

The door creaks open enough to catch the noise of casual conversations. As soon as I step inside, I see at least four pairs of eyes on me before they return their attention to the others around them. This is all done without missing a beat. 

Arthur shuts the door firmly behind me, and one man hunched over the fire turns to look at who’s walked in. His silver hair glows a strange yellow color due to the flames, but his smile seems warm and his intentions good enough. 

“Hey there, you must be the kid.” He sounds sick, a little weak. But there’s something about his voice that makes me shuffle over when he beckons. This man makes no move to touch me, only resting his hands between his knees, clasped together to coax warmth into one another. “What’s your name?” he asks softly. 

“Blair.” 

“I’m Hosea.” He sticks out his right hand, but a cough starts in his throat that makes him draw back. After a grumble of pain, he holds it out again. “Nice to meet you, Blair.” 

The shake is firm, not hard, not soft. Stable. Anchored. Just like Hosea seems to be. 

“You too,” I let myself smile a little bit. 

“How old are you?” He drops his hand back down. 

I nearly forget before I say it. “Thirteen.” 

“Well. Every thirteen year old needs a bit of extra boosting, so why don’t you go get some food?” Hosea turns behind us and gestures to the circle where more people sit. In their hands are bowls and mugs, or both, with some sort of steaming meal. I become very aware of my hunger. It roars and claws at my stomach when I approach and peer at the pot between two people. 

“See how tiny they are, Hosea? They’re so skinny…” 

“Relax, Arthur. Just relax.” 

“How did they even make it this far?” 

“Just give them some time. Come sit with me.” 

One of them turns, looks me in the eye. The hand holding his dinner is wrapped in thick white gauze. There’s a stark contrast between this and the dark ebony color of his skin. 

“Are you hungry?” His voice is so gentle I feel the urge to grasp his thick arm and hug him. 

But I keep steady enough to fold my hands behind my back and nod. 

“It’s okay, you can come get food. You need to eat.” 

Now, as I move forward, any nearby person seems to be waiting for me. I want to shrink, but instead, I keep myself grounded. A few steps, and I pick up a bowl to spoon the meat and vegetable stew into. It’s not quite unfriendly, yet, everyone seems to be waiting for something. So I take a deep breath in before I turn back. 

“That’s Blair, folks.” Hosea calls over his shoulder. “Be nice. They’ve only really met Arthur before now and it’s always a rocky start.” 

“Oh, shut up, old man.” he grumbles as everyone else laughs at his expense. Eyes are friendly now, and people are moving to give me a place to sit. I find myself next to the man who saw me first. Beside him, now, I feel even smaller than I did before. 

“Are you feeling better, Blair?” a keen voice with a strong, central Mexican accent, inquires. “Last time I saw you, you were passed out on a horse.” 

I realize I’m talking to the second rider out on the mountain. “Yeah, thank you.” 

“My name’s Javier, by the way.” He gives me a nod. “Welcome.” 

“Mucho gusto, Javier.” I hear myself say as a smile creeps onto my face. “Mucho gusto.” 

“Ah, que bien, ¡una persona que habla Español!” A laugh. “Cómo lo sabes?” 

“Mi abuela era Afro-Mexicana, entonces, mi papá aprendió, y el me enseño.” 

“Oh, Lord, I don’t believe it!” An old man in the corner chuckles and tilts his head up. “You finally ain’t alone no more, Javier!” 

“Uncle.” Is all he says in response. The large man beside me cracks a small smile. 

“Well,” Tilly’s voice pipes up. “You already know me, but this here’s Mary-Beth and Karen.” Two white women, one blond and one brunette- both pretty, waving to me, and older than Tilly. “I’m sure you’ll meet Miss Grimshaw soon enough.” Chuckles, all around. 

“My name’s Charles.” At last, my bandaged companion introduces himself to me and even gives me a genuine smile. I grin back. 

“It’s nice to meet you all.” 

The door swings open and slams shut behind me. Naturally, I jump as I whirl around to see another unfamiliar face. Pale, bearded, and wrinkled into a forever angry expression. 

“What the hell?! You’re eatin’ without me?!” is the slurred snarl that comes from his lips. 

“Calm down, Bill, there’s plenty left.” Arthur sighs, as if he’s heard this rant many times before. 

“Oh, and there he is! The big man himself, eh!” Stomping as he edges close to Arthur. “Where’ve you been the past day, huh?! While we’ve all been trying to survive?!” 

“Bill.” Hosea snaps. 

“I’m droppin’ it, I’m goin’... just gonna get food and go” 

I clench the bowl in my hands and take a bite. It’s plain, but I’d eat just about anything at this particular moment. So needless to say it disappears relatively quickly. The craving for seconds sets in almost instantly, so I reach forward for the spoon- 

Bill flashes in my vision as he bumps into my figure turning around from the pot. This sends the spoon and my bowl flying from my hand. It makes an impact on the front of his chest with a hearty slap. 

“Hey!” His head jolts down to get a look at the culprit, seeing a wide-eyed thirteen year old in clothes far too big for their own good. “Who the hell are you?!” 

This strikes a nerve in me. I’m not sure why, but attitudes like his always do. That’s how I end up getting chased every which way when I go to saloons on my own. Big mouths. I may be small, but I don’t take that. 

“Who’re _you_?” I spit out in response. 

Arthur jerks his head up to me with wide eyes. The rest of the group waits for a silent moment. 

A big, meaty hand clamps down on my shoulder. My throat burns. He moves me farther away from the pot, the stench of beer pungent in his breath. “You better show some respect, you little shit-” 

“Bill-” 

“No, no, it’s okay.” I hold up a hand, never breaking my gaze with the man. “I got it.”

My knee drives up into his stomach before he can say anything else. I grab his wrist and wrench his arm into a locked position. One swift pull brings him down to my level as I pull out a knife from my boot and hold it in his view. It gleams on both sides, from the fireplace and the wood below the pot. 

“Put your **_goddamn_ ** hands on me again,” I say calmly to his face. “And I’ll cut them off and shove them down your **_throat_ **.” 

“Alright,” he mumbles as we separate. “Easy, easy…” 

Arthur chuckles in disbelief. Slowly, the rest of the group shakes their heads clear of awe and loosens up. Bill takes his share and leaves, albeit grumbling drunkenly all the way. The low hum of conversation returns to normal. 

“The kid’s got spirit.” Hosea coughs. “I had a feeling.” 

“I cannot believe they just told off Bill Williamson after being here for a day!” Tilly cackles. 

Karen shrugs as she looks down into her mug. “Bound to happen sometime.” 

“Ah, he’s just drunk, he’ll get over it.” Javier hands me a clean bowl. “Here, take this. Sorry about that.” 

Arthur, meanwhile, is still slacked jawed in the corner as I tuck my knife away. 

I take so many servings and treats that people give me I feel stuffed to the brim. I ignore Hosea’s warning about eating too much and focus on trying to feel human again. Bread, beans, fruit, someone even hands me a chocolate bar towards the end. We sit and laugh and joke for an hour or so before the cold starts to creep in past the wood. 

“Alright, folks, let’s wrap it up.” Hosea creaks out of his chair and dusts off his legs. Before he heads out, he gives my hair a gentle ruffle. “Take it easy there, kid, you ate a lot tonight.”

“I will, I will,” I wave him away as Arthur comes to escort me home. 

We trudge dutifully through the ice and back into the cabin, where Arthur sits down on his bed to my right. I am incredibly unused to the feeling of food in my stomach, especially this much. I wince as I lean back on the headboard. 

I don't remember falling asleep. 

What I do remember is the dream I have— running, yelling for someone to save me, but no one comes, and it’s so close to me, and they grab me and I scream but they hit me so many times it hurts, and they take what I have and throw me, gagging and sobbing, off of a bridge— 

And then I recall waking up quite distinctly because I cannot breathe. 

A few gasps. My hands go around my throat, with no concern for the raw pain on my skin. There’s certainty that my eyes are bulging, because my skull aches with every beat of my heart. The panic sets in, but it doesn’t seem to wake Arthur yet. And I need help. Badly. 

One hand balled in a fist hits the headboard. The other clings to it like the river’s current is still there, going to sweep me away. The silhouette beside me rises almost instantly. 

“--Thur.” I huff out, followed by another gasp. “Ar--” 

“Blair?!” There’s no way he can see me, it’s too dark, but somehow his hands find my shoulders. “What’s goin’ on?!” 

I move my fist to my chest, in hopes that maybe this will convince him— and that, somehow, I will manage to punch air back into me. When he connects the gestures his eyes widen until I can practically see them as if it were daytime. 

“Shit!” He pries my hand from the branch— 

no, it’s the headboard, I’m on land. It was just a dream. Who were the men? Why did they take me? Why is my heart beating so fast it’s going to rip out of my chest? Why can’t I breathe? The river is sweeping me away and it’s not even real!— 

and lifts me from the bed to his chest. A few steps and I feel the bitter cold of the water rising up around me. I hold him even tighter and wheeze for air even louder. 

“I need help!” He shouts in the doorway over my gasps. “Now!” 

A door opens, somewhere in the distance. “Arthur?!” 

“Charles! They’re- I-“ 

Footsteps crunching in hard snow. A jolt of pain stabs through the center of my chest into my throat. I can only let out a whimpering cry. Everything is hot, too hot, the river is scalding on my skin, and then we’re back inside with more company. 

“What’s happening?!” 

“I don’t know! I- I don’t know! They ain’t breathin’ good!” 

“I hear that much.” A set of hands on my face. “Blair, you have to try and take deep breaths. In, two three, out two three. Here, Arthur, sit down, hold them upright. Keep their head on your shoulder.” 

I hear the bed groan only slightly past my shrill, desperate huffs not quite in and too far out. Black dots, darker than even the night around us, fill my vision in spurts. The bottom of the river. I press my lips together to call for help again. 

“—Thur…” 

“I’m here, kid.” He exaggerates the next breath he takes. “Charles, I—“ 

“In with Arthur. Feel his chest, Blair? Breathe with him.” 

I clench the back of his shirt and press myself even closer to his body. I can hear his heart pounding, nearly as quickly as mine. But I try. They’re tense, spasms, at first. It hurts even more than not being able to breathe at all. 

“That’s it, Blair.” Charles runs his hand through my hair when he sits next to us. “Just like that.” 

The knot inside of my throat that clogs all the way to my stomach loosens. It’s fast, but I feel air go in and out of my lungs. A second time. Wheezing turns into croaking and panting with more repetition. There is no river. Just this room. 

“Good job, kid,” Arthur murmurs into my ear. “There you go.” 

I calm down slightly. Release the crushed parts of his shirt and keep my hands flat instead. 

“Arth-ur… Cha-harles…” 

“We’re here. You’re okay.” 

I nod into Arthur’s shirt and lean into his neck to close my eyes. 

Now, with my lungs working as needed, the pain in my stomach swells like a bubble. I cough once, and it subsides. But the second time it heads back the way it came. I weakly push myself off of Arthur, and away from Charles, as it rises through my mouth and spills over the front of my shirt. 

“Poor kid,” Arthur says to himself while Charles grabs the pot on the edge of the bed and places it in my hands. 

Another bubble, heavier, this time, retches from my stomach into the bottom of the ceramic dish. I’m sitting sideways on Arthur now, with my back hunched over as the contents of my lovely night out fill the pot until acidic saliva drips from my mouth. 

Then I start to cry. 

Arthur shifts me back onto his lap and holds me tightly. I place the pot a ways away so the odor doesn’t make me recreate the scene all over again. Charles rubs my shoulders in circular patterns. 

“It’s over, Blair, it’s all over.” He hums. “You’re alright.” 

Arthur takes a deep breath. “I just… I woke up and they were gaspin’ like a goddamn fish, Charles… they were so scared, and so young…” 

“They had too much to eat,” he moves one hand to Arthur. “And it seems like whatever woke them up also got them good. But they’re okay.” 

“I’m sorry,” I cringe at the hoarse sound my voice squeaks out. 

“You don’t have to apologize, Blair, it’s not your fault.” 

Suddenly, a cloth wipes over my mouth. Arthur heaves another breath of air, like he’s finally calming down. He puts the rag down on the nightstand and, after some awkward hesitation, turns me to face him. 

“Blair…” 

All I do is collapse against his figure and let out a small sob. He’s stiff for a long moment, but eventually he rests his hands on the square of my back.“I can’t go back to sleep…” 

“You need to,” he chides. “Just- close your eyes. We’ve got you.” 

And Charles moves closer to us, puts his arms around us like a second piece of the shield. My eyelids are so heavy it’s a sweet relief to shut them. For being such a strong man, the way Arthur holds me makes me feel incredibly soft. He draws little shapes into my back, breaking every few minutes to drum his fingers on it instead. 

At some point, when time becomes undetermined, I wake up to Arthur very gently laying me against a series of propped up pillows. The quilt falls back over me. 

Flash forward to the next morning, and he hasn’t left like he did the day before. As soon as I blink open my eyes, he’s there, by my side, a hand to my head to see if I’m still burning — I am. 

“Arthur…” I mumble, a hand meeting his before he can draw it back. “I—” 

“Don’t have to, kid.” He pats my hand with his free one. “I’m stickin’ with you for a few days. Charles, too.” 

A smile, however feeble, forms on my lips. 

“I’d like that.” 


	3. three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> blair accompanies charles on a hunt.

**B** etween Arthur and Charles, I’m not left alone very long. From here, I gather their relationship is polite, but not warm. They agree with each other for the most part-- aside from rare occasions where they’d pass snide remarks. 

This particular afternoon is one of those times. 

“Your hand is bad, Charles, I ain’t sure you should be goin’ out again-” 

“Arthur, it’s fine. We need more food.” 

I turn over on my side to catch a glimpse of them in the doorway. Charles is in his usual blue shirt, bent over the fire. Arthur has his arms folded over his chest with a sour expression. Well, more sour than usual, I should clarify. 

“We got plenty of healthy people, myself included, who can go out.” Arthur argues again. “I ain’t letting you hunt and bleed again.” 

Charles isn’t sure how to respond, but the tension between the men is far too thick. I slide out of the bed, padding over on the cold hardwood in bare feet. They both see me at the same time. 

“I can go out,” I offer quietly. “I can hunt.” 

“Kid, you’re shaking where you stand.” 

And I am, but the comment makes me bristle. “I can hunt.” I repeat with further gusto. “I haven’t gotten sick since the second night and I don’t have a fever. I’ve done it plenty of times.” 

“Can you even shoot a gun, kid?” Arthur snips, eyes narrow and icy. 

I set my jaw, eyeing the pistol on his belt before answering. I see my hands clasping it, yanking it smoothly from the holster, setting off a round into the front door. But I’m too heated over this, definitely not thinking straight, and Arthur’s already following my gaze, so I shrug and fold my arms. “Dunno. Wanna find out?” 

Charles snorts at that. “Fine. You can come with me if you really want.” 

“Charles-” 

“Arthur.” His voice is low, so stern the wood in the fire crumbles at his words. 

My knight in dusty leather armor throws his hands up in defeat. “Don’t come cryin’ to me if you get frostbite or somethin’.” 

A hand gently pulling my shoulder. “Come on, get your coat.” is my command. 

It’s far too big for me, and smells like cigarette smoke and grass, but its thick and keeps me warm. My sturdy boots on, I step out into the cold of late morning in Colter. 

That’s what Arthur keeps calling it here, at least. It's an abandoned settlement of some kind-- blanketed in year after year of thick snow. As I follow behind Charles, I realize it's a wonder anything is still standing. 

We pass by a small overhang, where the cook I’ve seen hovering about is perched beside a pot of stew. He stirs it ever so often with one hand, takes a swig of whatever is in his other hand every time as a reward. By the way he’s humming and sometimes mumbling songs, he’s been out here since the sun fully rose. Charles nods to him, mutters his name, which I can’t quite catch. Behind the cook is a handsome young man with a stark orange bandana around his neck. His face is sharply-defined, but friendly, albeit scruffy from the stubble of his beard growing in. In the morning light, his deep brown skin almost forms a glowing halo. 

I lift my hand to wave, not sure if he can see my smile amongst bundled fabric. He returns the gesture before I have to look away and focus on the task at hand. 

Charles mounts an Appaloosa, white with dark freckles, and wide eyes that somehow manage to look calm all the same. “This is Taima,” he says gently with his hand in her mane. “Taima, this is Blair.” A gloved offering to me, that I eagerly accept. 

Once I’m situated, I determine that Charles has a different comfort than Arthur. He’s less focused on keeping me upright, but his hand is draped across my waist to hold me steady. He smells different, too, like pine and something sweet-- maybe honey. Taima takes off at a steady pace out of camp. My heart throbs at the feeling of riding a horse again. At one point I find my eyes drifting shut with the cold wind cupping my cheeks. I almost don’t realize we’ve stopped-- had it not been for Charles’ grunted question, I’m sure I could’ve fallen asleep where I sat. 

“You hunt often?” 

I twist my head to look up at him. “No, for nearly ten years I’ve relied solely on pickpocketing strangers that could beat me to a pulp if they really wanted.” 

A breathy laugh. “Alright then, I’ll take that as a yes.” 

“Since I was seven or eight,” I wink. “What about you?” 

“Can I hunt?” he looks at me pointedly. I hold back a laugh through tight lips. 

“No,” I huff a breath of faux frustration. “When did you learn to hunt?” 

He slides off Taima, hitches her to a tough looking tree. Once he wraps his arms around me, he answers. “Uh… I don’t really remember now.” 

“Did your parents teach you?” I exhale when my feet hit solid ground. “Neither of my parents could’ve.” 

“Your parents weren’t around?” 

“No, sir.” I shake my head softly, keep my eyes neutral on the space between his. “They died when I was young.” 

“Sorry to hear that.” He pulls a bow, then a second, the same in size, before chuckling and shaking his head. “Uh, sorry. This is all I’ve got.”

I giggle and take the cold wood in my hand. “No worries, good sir. You have your parents?” 

He sighs a breathy plume of smoke in concentration as he adjusts the string on his bow. “Yeah. Both for a while. Lost my mom. Dad drank himself away. So then, I guess, none. And I left home, but nobody was real friendly about it.” 

“Yeah,” I scoff as we start off. “Believe me. I know how that goes. My mom was Black. My dad was Native- Hopi, I think. I’m not sure. I wish I knew more. But I’ve had my fair share of shitheads. That’s actually how I ended up all caught in this mess.” 

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay now.” This signifies I have to be quiet, because his eyes are on the ground and studying some tracks I can’t quite catch. We take a sinuous path around pines, until a small river comes into view. There, I see what we’ve been stalking: a small herd of deer. 

A small gust of wind blows snow onto my exposed head, but I can’t move, because Charles is cocking an arrow and I know I’ll scare off his target if I react to the cold sliding down my neck. 

One drop of melting ice hits the earth. He releases. 

The deer is struck firmly in the head, and collapses right away. The others scatter, bounding gracefully in any direction they can manage. I pull back an arrow, ignoring the pinch of my tender fingers on the harsh material. One steady breath, in, and out. 

“Great shot,” Charles says, before I even register that I’ve struck down a kill. “Let’s go pick these up, and we can head back.” 

This near stranger’s compliment gives me a swell of pride. Even more so when we return, and I notice him patting my shoulder as we give the food to the cook. The handsome man is gone, replaced by a grouchy Arthur. 

“See that?” I tease him. “I got one.” 

He’s frowning, but there’s a gleam in his eye. “I still ain’t convinced Charles is just giving you half the credit. But you best be gettin’ back inside and getting warm.” 

“Maybe I’m giving Charles half the credit,” I call over my shoulder. “Think about that.” 

He’s laughing heartily still when I close the door. 


End file.
